“Maybe. He’s made an appearance in one of Nicola Stapleton’s diaries. He was invol
ved in a collision with Barry Morrison.”
“Who uses Sally Summerby to lie for him in court,” said Reilly.
“That’s another connection. Maybe he has Chloe,” said Benson. “Frank Fisher worked with his father, and sued him, and forced the closure of the business.”
“And maybe his father’s suicide was all down to the court case,” said Gardener.
“And we now know that Sargent testified in court so that Frank Fisher won his case.”
“Which leads us to suspect that Alan Sargent also lied in court,” said Gardener.
“We need to get to that clinic,” said Reilly. “What if Nicola Stapleton was responsible for his liver failure?”
“He could well have started his killing spree off with her and took the others out because of all the connections.”
Gardener stood up when Patrick Edwards came running back in. “Sir, CCTV from Kirkstall Road shows a weird shaped trailer on two separate sightings relevant to the times of the murder.”
“Weird shaped trailer?”
“Doesn’t look like a standard trailer. It looks… well… I don’t know. Homemade? It’s being pulled along by a motorbike.”
Gardener stood up. “I want the registration and the owner as quick as you can. We’re going over to the clinic.”
Chapter Fifty-five
Raymond Allen was standing at the back of the library in Otley. From his vantage point, he was in the perfect position to keep an eye on the rear entrance of the chemist. There was no access to the shop from Vincent’s flat other than the fire escape, so Allen didn’t have to worry about what was happening around the front. If Vincent made a move, he would know.
Having sent his final email to the self-proclaimed sleuth the previous night, Allen had then set about gathering his belongings together – which consisted of some stolen clothes and money. Both should last him for a week, at least. He could always steal more. Also in his suitcase were his true crime books, and a little something for Vincent.
Allen had left the hostel under the cover of darkness shortly after midnight. He’d spent two hours in an Internet cafe, because no one had bothered him. During that time, he’d studied and seethed at the blog that Vincent had posted. Not only had he told everyone about Allen’s history, he had posted two photographs. He had made it very clear that he thought Allen was responsible for the recent double murders.
Having finally made his way to the library in Otley, behind the building Allen had found a disused garage with the front door missing. It had plenty of cardboard and had served as somewhere to rest until morning came around.
From the garage doorway he’d noticed John Oldham’s car arrive at seven to open up for business. Another score needed to be settled with him.
Vincent had appeared on his fire escape in his dressing gown at around nine o’clock. He had a sandwich in one hand, a mug in the other, and a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. What use he thought they would be, Allen had no idea.
At twelve o’clock he had reappeared, still in his dressing gown. The sandwich had been replaced with a scone, the warm drink by a glass of the hard stuff.
Allen figured that would be his downfall. Alcohol and secobarbital were definitely not a good mix.
Allen glanced at his watch: three o’clock. He was starving, could have done with a drink as well, but couldn’t risk going for either. Being seen in public wasn’t as important as keeping tabs on Vincent. Not that he thought Sherlock Holmes was going anywhere. He’d no doubt barricaded himself in, keeping a constant eye on the local news and the Internet for any sightings of The Man in Black.
Well, he need not worry on that score.
He would be seeing The Man in Black soon enough.
Chapter Fifty-six
Reilly was driving. Gardener reckoned they were two minutes from their destination.
The meeting at the clinic had been successful. Apparently, Rydell discovered he had contracted hepatitis B around six months ago. Sadly for him it had developed into full-blown cirrhosis, from which there was no cure.
A few days previously, Rydell had refused any treatment whatsoever. Knowing that Nicola Stapleton was a carrier of the virus, the fact that she had written notes about Rydell in her diary, particularly the night his friends had clubbed together and bought her services, was enough of a connection for Gardener to think the worst.
“We’re here,” said Reilly.